I never came across a man yet who had not seen some other man jerked off the top of an omnibus into a mud-cart.

Half London must, at one time or another, have been jerked off omnibuses into mud-carts, and have been fished out at the end of a shovel.
Then there is the tale of the lady whose husband is taken suddenly ill one night at an hotel.

She rushes downstairs, and prepares a stiff mustard plaster to put on him, and runs up with it again.

In her excitement, however, she charges into the wrong room, and, rolling down the bedclothes, presses it lovingly upon the wrong man.

I have heard that story so often that I am quite nervous about going to bed in an hotel now.